Bernard Hopkins stood about a foot from his red corner, calmly waiting for the ringing of the bell that would start the 54th fight of his 19-year career. In front of Hopkins was Winky Wright, hopping up and down in the blue corner, himself a veteran of 55 bouts, a consummate professional whose 17 years as a prizefighter had taken him to eight countries on four continents.
In the usual build-up of pressers and conference calls, interviews and articles, Hopkins, in his usual loquacious manner, said he would solve the puzzle that is Wright, making him absorb enough punishment that his face would resemble the swollen mess that Hopkins made of William Joppy's visage in December 2003. Wright, for his part, said he would dominate Hopkins, shut his trash-talking mouth, break him down and send him "back to the retirement home."
It was marketed as a high noon showdown, the pairing of two respected clinicians, two practitioners of the Sweet Science who nonetheless, as the slogan went, would be "Coming to Fight." And for 12 rounds, Hopkins and Wright unleashed their artilleries, but the final bell saw both wannabe gunslingers survive with nary a bullet hole in their vests.
For so long, Hopkins and Wright had sat high on their horses, guiding their careers and devising strategies that were best suited to longevity and victory, even if it meant limiting their potential gains financially and in popularity.
"Back in the day, I was a slick boxer, stick and move, dance around and win the fight easily, and nobody could touch me," Wright said on a pre-fight conference call. That nostalgia followed a question about his change to a more aggressive style, in which Wright keeps a high guard but comes forward, often behind a southpaw jab or left hand leads. "I guess I moved to that kind of fighting because, you know, the network."
Ah, the network. Wright had been boxing for nearly a decade before a razor-thin loss to Fernando Vargas propelled him into occasional appearances on HBO. Yet a style that was heavy on jabs but not on knockout power meant that the premium cable outlet's boxing executives had yet to have their eyes opened by Winky.
Until Shane Mosley.
Mosley was among the many name fighters contracted to HBO, a former phenom whose momentum and undefeated record vanished following consecutive losses to Vernon Forrest. But Mosley's rematch victory over Oscar De La Hoya earned him two junior middleweight titles and the lineal championship. The top contender was another beltholder — an underestimated mainstay named Winky Wright.
Twice, Mosley faced off against the bigger man. And twice, Mosley lost. Wright was now the 154-pound champion, but he was once again caught in a predictable predicament: No one would fight him, and thus there was no one to fight — until Felix Trinidad came out of retirement.
The 12-round virtual shutout of Trinidad bored some but impressed many, a performance completely different from the manner that Hopkins had dominated Trinidad, a spotlight night that made Wright marketable if not memorable. Wright could have sat back and waited for the winner of that summer's Hopkins-Jermain Taylor middleweight championship bout.
Wright had his eyes on De La Hoya.
Following his body-shot KO loss to Hopkins, De La Hoya had initially announced a retreat to the welterweight ranks, later followed by word that his next bout would come at a contractual weight of 150 pounds.
"I see De La Hoya has created a new division for himself," Wright supposedly said afterward. "Is he calling it 'Junior Oscarweight,' or 'Super Catchweight?' Personally, I think it's 'Make Winky Wait.' "
Whether those were Wright's actual sentiments or just another truly brilliant invention of a boxing publicist, there Wright was, the junior middleweight king coming off of his crowning achievement to find that the land before him was featureless and futureless.
And thus, the waiting game that Wright had played while working to make his career finally take off became the weighting game, a permanent move to another division in the hopes of shoehorning himself into the title picture and into prominence. He outpointed Sam Soliman and then got his match with Taylor, the new middleweight monarch. They fought to a draw, and Wright, right or wrong in his motivation, reportedly priced himself out of a rematch.
Back to waiting. A one-sided decision over Ike Quartey was like treading water. An announced challenge of Hopkins, to take place at a catchweight of 170 pounds, was like embarking on a triathlon. Hopkins may have been 42, but he was well-conditioned, rejuvenated by a jump to light heavyweight and ready to follow up on his June 2006 drubbing of Antonio Tarver.
Wright was undaunted.
"I wanted to prove to the world, to everybody, that no matter what weight, if we can get close, then we can fight," Wright said on a pre-fight conference call. "I'm not a light heavyweight. I'm not a super middleweight. I'm a middleweight."
So, too, was Hopkins, for more than a dozen years.
"I believe I'm a 168-pounder naturally," Hopkins said on a pre-fight conference call. "In 1988, I fought at light heavyweight ... In between those years, I floated (between) super middleweight, and then I took myself down to middleweight because that's where it had to happen at and (I'd) been there for over many years."
Hopkins' 1993 decision loss to Roy Jones Jr. came relatively early in the Philadelphia native's career, back before "The Executioner" had truly learned how to execute. But middleweight was where the opportunity would come, and while Hopkins waited he demonstrated the same sort of discipline with his body that he practiced with his money. The man with memberships at multiple discount retailers would abstain from unhealthy foods while training hard to keep his poundage near 160. He picked up a title and defended it against all comers, a belt that brought far more leverage to the bargaining table than the few appearances he made on HBO.
Don King wanted a middleweight champion. Don King wanted Felix Trinidad as his middleweight champion.
King set up a four-man tournament and HBO signed the checks and signed on. Trinidad stopped William Joppy. Hopkins outpointed Keith Holmes. And then Hopkins, with a marvelous technical knockout win, sent Trinidad toward retirement and himself toward stardom.
The waiting game and the weighting game had paid off. The maximum six-figure paydays suddenly added a seventh digit. A pay-per-view extravaganza against De La Hoya brought an eighth. The man who had either too little (or too much) respect or too little recognition to fight under the brightest lights was now headlining pay-per-views thanks to his own star power.
And just when one thought (and Hopkins said) that his career was over, there he was at light heavyweight, fighting now not because he needed to, but because he wanted to.
"When I was in middleweight, I had to reserve certain things because of certain things that I ... had to deprive myself (of) for so many years," Hopkins said on a pre-fight conference call. "Now that I don't have to do that, the blueprint is June 10, 2006 (against Tarver). I came out blazing, came out, boxed and fought every round, and I didn't have to do this.
"I just found a new body. Somehow I just realized that I feel so strong. And, you know, 6-foot-1, you know, light heavyweight, you know, I gained a couple of inches around the waist, only two. It was 28, and now it's 30, 31, sometimes it's 31. It feels so great that now that I can step back on a gas pedal and not have to worry about, you know, I'm going to take him in deep water, I'm going to get him here and I'll pick my spots here. I can go full blaze."
Hopkins may no longer fight as many minutes of each round as he did against Trinidad and Joppy, but the long-delayed jump from middleweight means that he does far less picking of spots and far more throwing of shots — though as the Wright fight showed, those shots don't necessarily have the same impact that they used to.
That doesn't deter Hopkins. He executed, taking a unanimous decision over Wright. And the loss won't deter Wright from continuing on either. Hopkins voiced his hopes of possibly taking on 168-pound champion Joe Calzaghe. Wright wants to return to 160, and he is once again calling out De La Hoya.
Back to the waiting game — and the weighting game.
In the usual build-up of pressers and conference calls, interviews and articles, Hopkins, in his usual loquacious manner, said he would solve the puzzle that is Wright, making him absorb enough punishment that his face would resemble the swollen mess that Hopkins made of William Joppy's visage in December 2003. Wright, for his part, said he would dominate Hopkins, shut his trash-talking mouth, break him down and send him "back to the retirement home."
It was marketed as a high noon showdown, the pairing of two respected clinicians, two practitioners of the Sweet Science who nonetheless, as the slogan went, would be "Coming to Fight." And for 12 rounds, Hopkins and Wright unleashed their artilleries, but the final bell saw both wannabe gunslingers survive with nary a bullet hole in their vests.
For so long, Hopkins and Wright had sat high on their horses, guiding their careers and devising strategies that were best suited to longevity and victory, even if it meant limiting their potential gains financially and in popularity.
"Back in the day, I was a slick boxer, stick and move, dance around and win the fight easily, and nobody could touch me," Wright said on a pre-fight conference call. That nostalgia followed a question about his change to a more aggressive style, in which Wright keeps a high guard but comes forward, often behind a southpaw jab or left hand leads. "I guess I moved to that kind of fighting because, you know, the network."
Ah, the network. Wright had been boxing for nearly a decade before a razor-thin loss to Fernando Vargas propelled him into occasional appearances on HBO. Yet a style that was heavy on jabs but not on knockout power meant that the premium cable outlet's boxing executives had yet to have their eyes opened by Winky.
Until Shane Mosley.
Mosley was among the many name fighters contracted to HBO, a former phenom whose momentum and undefeated record vanished following consecutive losses to Vernon Forrest. But Mosley's rematch victory over Oscar De La Hoya earned him two junior middleweight titles and the lineal championship. The top contender was another beltholder — an underestimated mainstay named Winky Wright.
Twice, Mosley faced off against the bigger man. And twice, Mosley lost. Wright was now the 154-pound champion, but he was once again caught in a predictable predicament: No one would fight him, and thus there was no one to fight — until Felix Trinidad came out of retirement.
The 12-round virtual shutout of Trinidad bored some but impressed many, a performance completely different from the manner that Hopkins had dominated Trinidad, a spotlight night that made Wright marketable if not memorable. Wright could have sat back and waited for the winner of that summer's Hopkins-Jermain Taylor middleweight championship bout.
Wright had his eyes on De La Hoya.
Following his body-shot KO loss to Hopkins, De La Hoya had initially announced a retreat to the welterweight ranks, later followed by word that his next bout would come at a contractual weight of 150 pounds.
"I see De La Hoya has created a new division for himself," Wright supposedly said afterward. "Is he calling it 'Junior Oscarweight,' or 'Super Catchweight?' Personally, I think it's 'Make Winky Wait.' "
Whether those were Wright's actual sentiments or just another truly brilliant invention of a boxing publicist, there Wright was, the junior middleweight king coming off of his crowning achievement to find that the land before him was featureless and futureless.
And thus, the waiting game that Wright had played while working to make his career finally take off became the weighting game, a permanent move to another division in the hopes of shoehorning himself into the title picture and into prominence. He outpointed Sam Soliman and then got his match with Taylor, the new middleweight monarch. They fought to a draw, and Wright, right or wrong in his motivation, reportedly priced himself out of a rematch.
Back to waiting. A one-sided decision over Ike Quartey was like treading water. An announced challenge of Hopkins, to take place at a catchweight of 170 pounds, was like embarking on a triathlon. Hopkins may have been 42, but he was well-conditioned, rejuvenated by a jump to light heavyweight and ready to follow up on his June 2006 drubbing of Antonio Tarver.
Wright was undaunted.
"I wanted to prove to the world, to everybody, that no matter what weight, if we can get close, then we can fight," Wright said on a pre-fight conference call. "I'm not a light heavyweight. I'm not a super middleweight. I'm a middleweight."
So, too, was Hopkins, for more than a dozen years.
"I believe I'm a 168-pounder naturally," Hopkins said on a pre-fight conference call. "In 1988, I fought at light heavyweight ... In between those years, I floated (between) super middleweight, and then I took myself down to middleweight because that's where it had to happen at and (I'd) been there for over many years."
Hopkins' 1993 decision loss to Roy Jones Jr. came relatively early in the Philadelphia native's career, back before "The Executioner" had truly learned how to execute. But middleweight was where the opportunity would come, and while Hopkins waited he demonstrated the same sort of discipline with his body that he practiced with his money. The man with memberships at multiple discount retailers would abstain from unhealthy foods while training hard to keep his poundage near 160. He picked up a title and defended it against all comers, a belt that brought far more leverage to the bargaining table than the few appearances he made on HBO.
Don King wanted a middleweight champion. Don King wanted Felix Trinidad as his middleweight champion.
King set up a four-man tournament and HBO signed the checks and signed on. Trinidad stopped William Joppy. Hopkins outpointed Keith Holmes. And then Hopkins, with a marvelous technical knockout win, sent Trinidad toward retirement and himself toward stardom.
The waiting game and the weighting game had paid off. The maximum six-figure paydays suddenly added a seventh digit. A pay-per-view extravaganza against De La Hoya brought an eighth. The man who had either too little (or too much) respect or too little recognition to fight under the brightest lights was now headlining pay-per-views thanks to his own star power.
And just when one thought (and Hopkins said) that his career was over, there he was at light heavyweight, fighting now not because he needed to, but because he wanted to.
"When I was in middleweight, I had to reserve certain things because of certain things that I ... had to deprive myself (of) for so many years," Hopkins said on a pre-fight conference call. "Now that I don't have to do that, the blueprint is June 10, 2006 (against Tarver). I came out blazing, came out, boxed and fought every round, and I didn't have to do this.
"I just found a new body. Somehow I just realized that I feel so strong. And, you know, 6-foot-1, you know, light heavyweight, you know, I gained a couple of inches around the waist, only two. It was 28, and now it's 30, 31, sometimes it's 31. It feels so great that now that I can step back on a gas pedal and not have to worry about, you know, I'm going to take him in deep water, I'm going to get him here and I'll pick my spots here. I can go full blaze."
Hopkins may no longer fight as many minutes of each round as he did against Trinidad and Joppy, but the long-delayed jump from middleweight means that he does far less picking of spots and far more throwing of shots — though as the Wright fight showed, those shots don't necessarily have the same impact that they used to.
That doesn't deter Hopkins. He executed, taking a unanimous decision over Wright. And the loss won't deter Wright from continuing on either. Hopkins voiced his hopes of possibly taking on 168-pound champion Joe Calzaghe. Wright wants to return to 160, and he is once again calling out De La Hoya.
Back to the waiting game — and the weighting game.
